a knock on the door on christmas eve

conversations with anna

Anna can be a little fussy. She likes to wear shirts that have pictures on them. She doesn't like to wear Marta's handme down underwear. And she doesn't like to do "boring" things.

She usually enjoys doing "boring" things once she gets started, but before that, it takes some diplomatic language to get her going. She didn't want to go to the singing class at the Folk Music Barn because it was "so boring," but once she got there she loved it.

She thinks kindergarten is "boring" too. Our conversation yesterday went something like this:

Us: But why don't you want to go to kindergarten?

Anna: Because it's so boring.

Us: But what about your friends?

Anna: I don't have any friends.

Us: But what about Markus? Didn't he hold your hand once?

Anna: No.Markus is friends with Joonas.

Us: But what about little Pihla?

Anna: Pihla is friends with Mimi.

Us: But what about little Mia? You're friends with her right?

Anna: No. Little Mia is friends with Hanna.

Us: But what about big Mia?

Anna: Big Mia isn't friendly.

Us: What about Alja?

Anna: Alja is friends with Villu Illimar

Us: But what about Villu Illimar? He's you're friend too, right?

Anna: Ha! Don't you know? Villu Illimar can't even talk!

According to the teachers, though, Anna has a lot of fun in kindergarten. She never cries when we leave her there. She's always in a happy mood when we come. Maybe kindergarten isn't so "boring" after all.

minyazawhat?

I really don't want to be one of those parents who pigeonholes his or her child early on and then is immensely disappointed when little Johnny decides to be a bartender instead of an astronaut.

Still, you notice things about your kids. You notice that they take to some things more than others. And I think Marta enjoys learning new languages. She speaks two languages natively -- English and Estonian. We have been to Spain twice (and there are plenty of Spanish speakers in New York) so Marta has learned Spanish as a second foreign language.

She has actually requested Spanish computer games so she can learn. She also sometimes has requested to watch Mary Poppins in Spanish (and also in French a few times too). I've taught her some Italian. The only word she usually remembers is "bambola" (doll).

Now, in school, she is learning Russian. This presents a challenge to me, because I don't know Russian. She's running around yelling, "Minya zavut Marta," and asking me questions that start with "Kak" that I don't know how to answer. But that doesn't hurt her exuberance. I was worried Marta was only interested in playing with her friends and being a comedienne, but it seems there is some student in her. She is finally happy to be learning something. I am happy too.

beatles

"You should wear your hair like this, Issi," Marta pushed my hair in my face. "Then you will look cool, like The Beatles."

I was surprised that she even knew who The Beatles were. Then I remembered that Martha-Liis, her babysitter, is a big Beatles fan. Martha-Liis, or Maša, is only 15 years old.

"You know, I saw one of The Beatles once, in concert," I told Marta. "Ringo Starr."

"Who was the one who got shot?"

"John Lennon."

"But why was he shot?"

"Some crazy person shot him. And, you know, it was a long time ago. I was only one year old."

"But did the man who shot him go to jail?"

"Yes, he did, Marta. He's still in jail."

potatoes!

We were invited to help out at a place near Viljandi picking potatoes over the weekend. We only managed to pick potatoes for about three hours before the shock of doing actual physical labor set in. That and Anna was crying.

Even Marta -- notoriously labor prone -- helped collect baskets of potatoes, and Anna collected quite a few buckets too. Our friends Enn and Kaari worked until 8 pm that night. They have more potatoes than they know what to do with (which is why Estonians eat so many potatoes, Epp says).

After we left the farm, the kids got to bounce on the trampoline at Enn and Kaari's place. Anna usually wants me to hold her hand, but this time she got used to jumping all by herself:

parenting 101

My friend's got four kids and is in the process of opening a cafe. He chides me for going to the discount grocery across the street for buying bread. He usually bakes his own.

"Why do you keep buying that shit?" he says. "If you keep eating that crap you'll be dead in, like, two years."

"My kids demand it," I answer. And they do. They kids want bread and more bread. With butter, peanut butter.

"What do you mean they demand it? They should eat what is served."

"Not my girls. They want what they want."

"If you give into them like that, you'll ruin them."

"It's too late. The damage is done."

"So you should starve 'em awhile! We went for a long hike and the kids didn't eat all day. Then we gave 'em these little sandwiches. I've never seen people eat with such gusto."

package from mimi

I thought I could keep Anna from eating all the chocolate Mimi sent by hiding it on top of the refrigerator. I was wrong.

She also made short work of the organic lollipops. She liked the pink watermelon ones. Now there are no pink ones left. She keeps crying, "But I want pink!" There are plenty of red ones left though. I guess she'll eat those after she finishes the chocolate.

recycling center

There is a recycling center on the edge of town. Whenever we have too many boxes, I load up the car and bring them there so they can be broken down and remade into, I don't know, new copies of Petrone Print books.

The other day I went to pick up Marta from school on the way to the center. She didn't want to come, so I had to bribe her. I promised her lots of chocolate. When she heard that, she happily came along.

I dragged most of the paper to the big warehouse where they keep the cardboard and newspapers. When I turned around, Marta's arms were full of paper too. She was helping me! Marta though the recycling center was really cool. She had a good time, and was later rewarded with two really big bars of chocolate:

kitchen table

This past week we finally got a kitchen table. We found it in a store in Tallinn about a month ago, and they shipped it and the chairs to Tartu. From Tartu, I picked it up and brought it back to Viljandi and then, after three months, we were able to eat dinner in our kitchen for the first time.

The kitchen table has become the center of our home. This evening, Marta sat on one of the seats and began reading by herself. She just decided that, what the heck, I want to read it, so I might as well try. And she made it a good half way through the book -- about Thumbelina -- before she said she was tired. Epp was cheering her all the way.

Meantime, Anna has also found ways to enjoy the kitchen table. Today I gave her some honey and a spoon, and she was happy to finish off the honey jar ...


And share some tasty honey with her little friends ...

german

Marta is always running around with different kids. A few times, she has stopped by with German, her classmate. German (pronounced with a hard 'g' sound, almost like 'Kerman'), is an Estonian Russian.

"This is German," Marta said. "He speaks ... you know."

"What does he speak?" I asked Marta. She is a little uncertain of language names and mixes up "Finnish" and "Russian" all the time.

"You know, he speaks privet."

"Ah, Russian. He speaks Russian."

"I speak Estonian too," German told me, "but also Russian. Do you speak Russian?" He looked up at me with great big hopeful brown eyes.

"No," I told him. "I speak English. I am from America."

German said nothing but looked utterly disappointed.

"They don't teach Russian in school in America," I tried to explain. "I learned Spanish."

He seemed even less impressed.

"Ok, I know a few words," I confessed. "Privet (Hello), dasvidanya (Goodbye), zatknis (Shut up)."

At this he finally smiled. Then the kids turned and stormed off in another direction.

back in the sandbox

Anna loves her sandbox. She especially likes to play with gravel in the sandbox. She makes food for me to eat. Today the gravel was "strawberries." She also made me "milk" -- sand in a cup.

Anita -- a girl Marta's age who lives up the street -- stopped by and played with us. Anita also made me sand food. She prepared chopped meat and boiled potatoes and offered me tea to drink.

Anna followed me all over the backyard. She even sat and played quietly while I hung the laundry. She insists that I also sit in the sandbox with her, even though there is a nice swing a few feet away. It occurred to me today while watching Anna in the sandbox that I had been in one before. I used to sit in the sandbox every day when I was a little boy. Here's another photo of our sandbox girl and "dinner" ...

folk music barn

Once a month, Viljandi's Pärimusmuusika Ait -- "Folk Music Barn" -- hosts a special children's hour, where a musician comes and shows them different instruments, they sing songs, play games, and, at the end, eat pancakes.

Since Marta still has a cold, I went with Anna alone this morning to the Barn, which is close to our house. In one of its smaller rooms, we gathered ... mostly mothers and children of ages between 2 and 7 or 8. There was one other dad there. The musician sat on the small stage (you can see it on Anna's right in this picture) and played different instruments, and explained how they are made.

Altogether, the children learned about bagpipes, different kinds of folk music flutes from Africa and Mexico, a jaw harp, and a soprano saxophone. The instruments held Anna's attention, but she was too small to really understand how they worked. Hopefully Marta can come to the next presentation:




Afterwards, the children played games and got to play with the instruments. Anna was relatively shy (believe it or not) but later found herself beating a big drum made from cow hide:



At the end of the hour, the main event: pancakes with jam and peppermint tea. Anna was telling me she was "hungy" the whole time -- the music was nice, but she was more interested in the pancakes. And there is something very special you should know about Anna. This week she finally started making a "g" sound. You may recall that Anna has substituted the letter "t" for both "g" and "k" in the past. She would say "tar" instead of "car." She still says "tar," but she has learned to make the "g" sound, and sings "ga ga ga ga ga ga ga" to the melody of Old MacDonald:



PS: I know these photos aren't the highest quality. I take them with my Nokia E63.

epp and marta

This photo was taken on the island of Hiiumaa in August. People say Marta looks more like Epp than me. That's probably true.

school days

Today I was walking down the street and I saw a group of small children walking from a playground. Then I heard the teacher call out: "Anna Margaret - this way."

I saw Anna's striped, pink jacket. It is actually a mild, sunny, beautiful day, but it was cold in the morning (we do live near a lake). The jacket has a long history -- we bought it all the way back in 2004 when we lived in Port Jefferson. It is still in use.

Anna saw me and ran in my direction. Then she jumped into my arms and made a pig sound. "Oink oink!" she said to me. I put her down and told her that she had to stay with her friends. I only know two of them: one is named Joonas and the other is Mimi. Her name is pronounced in the French way (I think) with the emphasis on the second syllable. miMI. Mimi has a little brother: Benjamin. I first met Mimi at our friends' cafe. I had put a bag of pastries on the ground and gone inside the cafe to talk. When I came out, somebody had found the pastries and was eating one:

Anna talks about her a lot. I guess she has left an impression on our younger daughter. Anna doesn't cry when she goes to preschool in the morning. This morning, she happily followed the teacher into the kitchen where she was making breakfast.

Marta likes school too. I have only been inside with her a few times. The school feels very comfortable. It is nice that I can walk both children to their schools. After school, Marta plays with her friends from class, or sometimes with girls from the neighborhood. Last weekend, she slept over her friend Mia's house. Mia lives outside our town and they have a big trampoline in the yard. Needless to say, Marta did not want to leave when I went to pick her up.

That's Mia to the right of Marta. Maari (age 5), on the far left, is Mia's little sister and Miko (age 2), on the far right, is her little brother. On Sunday, they went hiking in Soomaa National Park and Marta went swimming in a lake (probably the last swim of the year). There is something else that connects Marta, Anna, Mimi, and Mia and her brothers and sister: they are all bilingual. Mimi's father is from Sweden. Mia's father grew up in New Jersey. It's nice to be able to talk to other kids in English. Mia's older brother Mano (age 11) calls me "Mr. Petrone."

little girls

Satsuki and Mei from My Neighbor Totoro. They look so innocent, so cute. Sometimes our daughters remind me of Satsuki and Mei. Other times they don't.

For starters, they are covered in band-aids. Anna's face is usually covered in dirt by the end of the day, and both girls have their share of runny noses. Marta's smile is peculiar -- her second big front tooth has come out, and she lisps a bit when she talks. To top it off, they both recently drew on their toenails with marker. It's a chipped blue.

That's how they look, but how do they act? They fight, mostly over things. Barbie is the bane of my existence. Anything related to this brand -- a doll, a DVD, a magazine - can start a huge civil disturbance. One wants what the other has, and they are never satisfied with some consolation Barbie product. Once, while Anna was being extremely fussy about a particular Barbie dress, Daddy Cool lost his cool.

"FUCK BARBIE!" I yelled, and then immediately apologized. It was no use. Anna let out the loudest scream ever. I have never heard such a shriek. It was as if a volcano had erupted, spewing forth bad vibes.

The girls are both very passionate, but can be difficult in different ways. Marta is an excellent whiner though most of the time I don't believe her. Anna channels her aggression by throwing things, usually at people. Marta hits Anna when she doesn't want to share. Anna tortures Marta by turning out the lights while Marta -- paranoid from a few too many scary movies -- is in the tub. I caught Anna dancing giddily outside the bathroom while Marta was crying in the dark. She was very amused.

But they also can be good. Marta likes to draw quietly at her desk. Anna likes to play with her toy horses. She brings the horses everywhere. Little girls seemed so mysterious when I was a boy in school. Now I am living the mystery.

the mist

My grandmother Ann is going to be 86 years old this year. She is the oldest person in our family and she is the last one left from her family, and when I say her family, I mean that all of her six brothers are dead and, as far as I know, all of her sisters in law are dead too.

Grandma's parents are dead, her grandparents are long dead, and all her cousins are dead, even some of her cousin's children are dead. In the cast of Grandma's life, most characters have simply moved on to the other side. Grandma now is the sole rememberer. She is the key that links the family that once existed with the family that now exists. And Grandma was born in 1924, which doesn't sound like a very long time ago to me, but it was. She's a Coolidge baby. Think about it.

This month Grandma lost her sister-in-law, Aunt Helen. Grandma's family is fragmented. She had six brothers: Frank, John, Joe, Fred, Ken, and Bob. I knew John ("Popeye"), Ken, and Joe ("Father") the best. They were all these sort of pudgy, freckled masses of Irishness, but each one was different. Popeye could cuss like a sailor. Father was the picture of 19th century intellectualism, Ken was rough around the edges but fundamentally likeable guy.

And of their wives, I really only knew Helen. She was a nice woman. The last time, I saw her at my brother's wedding she gave me a kiss. She had been through hell by that point, was in bad shape, but still remembered me. And who was I to her? Her sister in law's grandson. But she knew who I was: and so the element of family was kept alive. Because who I am I to anyone else from that family? I could be sitting beside cousins from various branches at any airport or restaurant and not even know it. I am grateful for that kiss.

And now she is gone too. I get the feeling some time that we are drifting through a mist in life, that people walk through this mist with us for awhile and then we lose them, they slip into the shadows, and we never see them again. It seems frightening, but that's how it is. And Grandma keeps on walking forward, through the mist. All the people she has known, even those closest to her, like Helen, who was the same age as her, will slip into the mist. We can all say that we knew this person, but we can't see them anymore. The past becomes nothing but a shared dream.

Should I be lucky enough to live as long as Grandma or Aunt Helen, I'll see it too. All my aunts, all my uncles, all my cousins, all my friends, all my colleagues. We are headed in one direction. We are all going to die. Even those who live to be 110 years old will die. Obama babies will be born, and Coolidge babies will fade away. The only thing those of us who are still walking through the mist can do is remember them. By remembering them, we still hang on to them. If we forget them, then they are gone forever.

What house is this?

Anna is very inquisitive. Today, she held a small children's book in front of me.

"What house is this?" she asked.

I looked at the cover of the book. There were pictures of animals on the cover. "I don't see any house," I said.

"What house is this?" Anna demanded again. She seemed frustrated. She doesn't like it when we don't understand her.

"There is no house," I flipped the book over. There was only text on the back.

"No! What house is this!" Anna screamed. Then I looked at her little thumbs. They were obscuring a tiny black and white print at the base of the back cover. It was indeed a little house.

"It's a Random House," I told her.

"Ah," she squeaked with joy. "A Random House!" And Anna said it, as if she had always known what Random House was.

new friend

Congratulations to our friends Scott and Janika, who welcomed their first son, Uko Robert, on May 7. I was especially happy to see Scott's photo of the food they serve in Tallinn Central Hospital. Ah, sweet memories.

the education of marta

Our oldest daughter Marta is somewhere in between. She's been the oldest kid in an Estonian lasteaed (kindergarten) since September, but she's also been frustrated in recent months, eager to learn, so we put her into a preparatory eelkool (pre-school) with the hope of moving her to the Catholic School nearby.

In Estonia, most kids are seven when they go to school, and school begins with the first grade. Marta will be six years, ten months as of September, and making her wait one more year as the oldest kid in kindergarten didn't seem like the right move. So we applied for a slot in the Catholic School. And didn't get it.

This threw something of a wrench into our plans, which was mostly my plan. I imagined Marta going to the Catholic School, Anna taking her slot at the kindergarten, and moving down the street. It was almost too easy. Without Marta's entry to Catholic School, though, all those plans went down the drain. So much for making plans!

Local options included putting her back into kindergarten, putting her into the city school, or ferrying her everyday to the Waldorf school on the edge of town. But we didn't like any of these options. I don't think Marta would develop any more in kindergarten -- she actually beat me up one day because she didn't want to go because she is sick of obligatory nap time -- and I think her sparkling personality would slip between the cracks in a public school class filled with kids who will be older than her. It's like I said, she's in between.

For months now, we have looked into Waldorf education elsewhere, mostly in a place called Rosma, a small village outside of Põlva, where they have a highly recommended school that just happens to be in what I consider the middle of nowhere. We've visited the school a few times, and it is lovely. Waldorf seems to suit Marta's needs -- small classes, a focus on music and handicrafts, and monthly school performances on a stage. Marta needs a stage.

Of course, my Estonian wife and children could easily slip into a place like Rosma. But me? Whenever I thought of Rosma, I thought of Jack Nicholson's character in The Shining. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. Maybe it's because I saw the village in November when it was muddy and brown and yuck. Then again, when driving back to Tartu, seeing the railroad, the electrical lines traced in the fog, I always pondered, Would I really choose this place if I went shopping for a city to live? I've actually grown a little sick of Tartu as of late. I think this winter did it for me.

So the question followed: Are there any other Waldorf schools in Estonia? There are. There's one in a village outside of Tallinn, and there is one within Tallinn in Lasnamäe, which isn't high on my list of relocation opportunities. The Lasnamäe option would be the equivalent of the Tartu Waldorf option -- driving every day, back and forth. So that left Viljandi. Viljandi?

Viljandi is the hub to many of the places where my in-laws live, though none of them actually live in Viljandi (nor have lived there). I've been there many times, most recently last summer, which was pleasant, and last winter to see a Tagaq concert. Viljandi is located on a series of hills overlooking a lake, and has an old castle. Viljandi also actually has a pretty thriving theater and folk music scene, and I was impressed by the turnout at the concert I attended. If that many people would come out to see an Inuit throat singer, then it must be an ok place. But what sort of sold me on the idea was the trip last week. For one it was sunny, for two, the school is in a nice neighborhood in the old part of town overlooking the lake, and for three, there are ample, cheap living options and when I say cheap, I mean that one apartment cost $200 a month.

It was rather weird when I think of it. Tartu kept making things complicated, Viljandi seemed ready for us to move right in. We even found a favorite house nearby on the hill overlooking the water. We were told by a tenant that there was nothing for rent there, but left our contacts anyway. Then we got a call this week from the owner of our favorite house: indeed there is an apartment for rent, with a lake view. He just didn't want to advertise. Is this a dream? WTF?

Today we went to look at the school and got to sit in on the classes and meet the first grade teacher who was so nice I doubted her Estonianness. Marta seemed really happy there -- she was smiling, playing with the kids, and seemed comfortable. Kids that are educated in Waldorf schools seem rather mature -- I mean they are playful, they are still kids, but they aren't afraid of grownups. Several kids came right up to us, asked our names, what we were doing. They were straightforward, confident -- that's the kind of person I want Marta to be, and I think she is. And this is really all for Marta. Without the school there, I'd doubt Viljandi would be on our list of places to live for awhile. But it seems like the best option for her and she can walk to school. Marta has a lot potential: why not encourage it?

Everything's moved so fast this past week. We are both kind of surprised by this new direction. I hope it's the right decision, but who can tell.

full moon

Marta: Don't look at the full moon.

Me: Why not.

Marta: Because it might catch you.

Me: And then what?

Marta: And then it will turn you into a robot!

This morning Marta attempted to ride her bike to kindergarten. She can ride for awhile but, sooner or later, she steers into a pole or a fence or the bike starts going in the wrong direction. We left the bike at Leenu's house and I carried her the rest of the way.

Marta: Are fish happy living in a tank?

Me: Well, there are trade offs, I think.

Marta: Trade offs?

Me: Good things and bad things. Like, in a tank, no big fish can eat you.

Marta: Like sharks?

Me: Mmhmm. But at the same time, it must get really boring swimming around in the same tank all the time. So if you live inside the tank, you trade freedom for safety. But if you live outside the tank, you trade safety for freedom.

We walk awhile, and I ponder if there is some profound meaning to what I have just said.

Marta: But what about penguins? Are they happy living in an aquarium?

Me: Well, they do get fed every day. But maybe it is boring to keep swimming around the same place over and over again.

Marta: But they do have homes. People build homes for them.

Me: You are right. Maybe a penguins life isn't so bad. And no one is trying to eat them.

Marta: Like sharks.

new relative/uus sugulane

Epp's cousin Triin gave birth to her first daughter on April 15. After some nameless days, Triin and Andres agreed to call the tyke Annaliisa.

I am really happy for Helle, Triin's mother and Epp's aunt, because she has always been so nice to our kids, and now she has her very own little granddaughter to smother with attention.

2010 seems to be a boom year for babies. I can't even name all the kids that have popped out so far and we are only four months in. Many more are expected. Congratulations to all.

bermuda, greenland

I am probably the only person who cares about this stuff, but I have to write it down somewhere.

When my grandfather Jerry married my grandmother Peg in 1941, it wasn't in a big church wedding. Jerry was just passing through Virginia when he met her, and they eloped after knowing each other for two weeks.

According to family lore, my great grandfather Sam was pissed. But he couldn't do anything -- he was in Bermuda. Yes, Bermuda. I always thought I made that part up because it sounds exotic, but I recently found out it was true: Samuel J. Petrone of Huntington Station, NY, really arrived in New York from Hamilton, Bermuda on Dec. 19, 1941. It's a true story.

But that's not everything. The same site -- Ancestry.com -- showed that he arrived almost exactly two years later on Dec. 30, 1943, in Boston, Massachusetts. His departure point? Bluie West 1, Greenland. I know what you're thinking - where the hell is that? I had to look it up too. It's the old US Army name for Narsarsuaq Airport at the southern tip of Greenland, which was constructed in 1942 -- probably in part by my great grandfather.

Is there a travel gene? I am not sure if I believe in such things. I did read a book recently where the author said that if you want to understand families then you have to look at them over several generations. Either way, one (good) thing can be said of us Petrones -- we get around. I haven't been to Bermuda or Greenland yet. I do hope to get there some day.

passport control

An inquiry from a friend recently caused me to look into Estonian citizenship law. Both of our daughters are Estonian citizens -- this status was acquired by birth. They are also American citizens -- a status also acquired by birth.

I was under the impression that they would have to pick a nationality by the time they turned 18, but this does not seem to be the case. Instead, Estonian citizenship is seen as an inalienable blood right: once you've got it, you have to renounce it to get rid of it. That makes me happy; it's not a bad thing to have both US and EU citizenship. A big part of the world is your oyster.

During the early Bush years, I looked into acquiring Italian citizenship. This was around the time of the Axis of Evil speech, when I considered the idea that the "War on Terror" might spill into a number of different nations, some of them nuclear armed, perhaps requiring conscription of my young ass. This sounds far fetched now, but don't forget that Al-Qaeda had flown a plane into the Pentagon the same year, so anything appeared to be possible.

It turned out that I am entitled to Italian citizenship on the principle of jus sanguinis -- that is, I acquired it at birth without even knowing it. According to Italian law, even the great-grandson of an Italian immigrant can acquire Italian citizenship, if the immigrant's child was born before he was naturalized. The obstacle is that it has to be passed down the paternal line. This is the case in our family. My great-grandfather Salvatore Petrone was born in San Giorgio Albanese in the province of Calabria in 1894. He emigrated to the United States in 1910. My grandfather Jerry Petrone was born in 1916. In 1917, Salvatore filled out a WWI Draft Registration Card. Item 7 asks, "If not a citizen, of what nation are you a citizen or subject?" He responds: Italy. To make it clear -- that means that my great-grandfather was still an Italian citizen when my grandfather was born.

Now, I am not sure on what kind of paper chase I would have to embark should I actually go about proving my Italian citizenship to the state. We would be dealing with documents that are in most cases more than 100 years old. I doubt the Italian embassy in Washington would be very helpful. But the way the state views it, we have had a right to Italian citizenship since birth -- it's just that no one had informed us of it. Isn't that sad? Oh well, I don't know if I'll ever get that Italian passport. And things are obviously different these days. The US has Barack Obama, and Italy's still stuck with Silvio Berlusconi. Imagine calling him president?

marta's cafe

Marta: When I grow up, I'm going to be rich.

Me: Oh yeah, what are you going to do?

Marta: I'm going to work in a cafe.

Me: A cafe huh? I thought you wanted to be an astronaut.

Marta: No, I want to work in a cafe. You make people food and then they give you lots of money.

zoinks!

I picked Marta up from preschool today and one boy came up to us and said, "Hello."

"Hi," I said. "What's your name?"

"Oliver." Oliver didn't know much more English than that, but he told me in Estonian that he used to live in the United States.

"Do you remember which state?"

"One of the northern ones."

"Maine? Vermont? Michigan?"

"Um, Washington."

"Washington State?"

"Uh huh."

The teacher said his parents were studying there when he was born.

On the way back, Marta asks me from the sled (because she goes to school on a sled and comes home on a sled):

"Issi?"

"What?"

"You know those people in Scooby-Doo, like Fred and Daphne?"

"Yeah."

"What state are they from?"

"Oh God, I don't know," I said. "California, I think." Then I start thinking about California. "Do you miss America sometimes Marta?"

Marta nods.

"Tell you what. One day, we can move back there."

"I want to move back to that place where we lived before."

"Danny's house?"

"That's the first place I remember. I don't remember the rooms, but I remember I had a flowery blanket."

"I bet if we go back there, you'd remember more."

I pull her for awhile in the dark.

"Issi?"

"What?"

"What are spooks?"

Spooks? I think. Marta must have learned that from Scooby-Doo.

"Spooks are ghosts, honey," I tell her.

"But what are ghosts?"

"Well," I sigh because I know there's no easy answer. "Some people believe that a person doesn't just have a body. It has a soul. When you die, your soul leaves your body, so you can't move or talk or do anything."

Marta stares at me.

"Some people believe that when you die, the souls all go somewhere, like heaven or some place like that. But some souls don't want to go to heaven. They stay where they are and sometimes people see them. Those are ghosts."

Marta says nothing. I realize that even if I don't subscribe to one organized religion, I do believe in souls and ghosts.

"Hey, Issi, do you see that?" Marta motions through the park towards the road.

"What?"

"Those red lights."

I don't see anything. "Where?"

"Over there, look," she points again.

Now I see it. It's the lights from the radio tower of the Tartu laululava -- concert stage. They have outdoor concerts there all summer.

"I think that's the radio tower," I say.

"No, it's not," Marta says. "It's a castle!"

marta dreams

"I had a dream last night, Issi. I took my things off, i took everything off, and I don't mean just my clothes, but my skin, and just everything, I was just bones."

Marta has a keen interest in the human body. Our house already has several illustrated books for children about what goes on inside you. Marta likes to read these alone, or look through them with us before she goes to sleep. She might have some inclination for the medical field. She tells me she wants to "look under people's skin."

In January we took her to Bodies an exhibition of, well, bodies in Tallinn. She is not squeamish about any of this stuff. She finds it interesting.

5,6,7,9

This is Anna. She's two and a half years old and she wants candy. Her favorite place to go is the "ice cream store," also known as any supermarket or corner grocery that happens to sell ice cream.

When I take her out to the ice cream store though, I don't buy her ice cream, I buy her kohuke, chocolate covered curd, usually with some kind of fruit filling. She can't tell the difference and, besides, what kid needs to eat ice cream in the middle of winter in Estonia?

It's impossible to sate Anna's appetite for sweets though. An hour later and she's tugging on my pants asking for candy, in English. When Anna wants anything else, she usually speaks Estonian. But with me, concerning candy, she unequivocally displays her knowledge of daddy's language.

"Issi, I want candy," she'll say, "one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, ten candies!"

At this I correct her. "Don't you mean, seven, eight, nine, ten candies?"

"Yeah," Anna says, "nine, ten, eleven, thirteen candies."

Usually, if I have candy, I can only give her one or two. She's typically disappointed, having asked for 14 candies, but at least the little girl is counting in English.

the marta maria show

Marta is six years old. She is the oldest (by a few months) in her kindergarten and detests the mandatory nap time. She is eager to learn.

At the same time, every morning it's the same. By the time Marta is ready for kindergarten she's thrown a few fits and is more often than not crying over something. Not exactly mature behavior.

Because she's frustrated and not ready or even old enough for Estonian school (which begins when you are 7), we have decided to put her in eelkool (literally "preschool") two times a week. This is a place where kids learn in a classroom environment without the big pressures of real school. Today was her first day. I asked her how it went. She said they talked about the number 7 and sang some songs. That's all I could get out of her. The teacher seems nice. We'll see how it goes.

I still haven't figured out how to deal with Marta's, well, Martaness. Sometimes, I try it the calm Estonian father way: "Marta, please put your clothes on." If that doesn't work, I try Italian-American father way: "Put your damn clothes on now before I make you put them on!" This doesn't work either because Marta likes fighting. She'll only shout louder. It's a real dilemma. Usually, I just wind up putting them on myself. But that doesn't help Marta to grow up, now, does it? Hmm.

darcy's coming!

It is my lot in life that I live in a house full of women. And so I got stuck watching Pride and Prejudice last night. At first it was like, yuck, 19th century British teenage girls gossiping about the ball? But then I noticed one moody bastard brooding in the back, unwilling to dance with the others: Mr. Darcy. I could relate.

The other character to whom I could relate in the film was Mr. Bennett, the father of five girls, who seems at times, a bit keen to marry them all off (to the highest bidder). Of course, Mr. Darcy had to go consult with Mr. Bennett about his proposal to Elizabeth, played by Keira Knightly, at the end of the film. I found this quite funny.

"Some day," I told Epp, "some guy will come groveling to me asking for my daughter's hand in marriage and I'll have to weigh the merits of his proposal."

"Oh, I don't think so," Epp responded.

At this we both had a really good laugh. Both Marta and Anna liked the film, though Marta fell asleep half way through. At the end, when Darcy finally made his proposal to Elizabeth, Anna was standing on the bed yelling "Darcy's coming! Darcy's coming!" She's only two and a half years old.

menagh

It's amazing the stuff you can find on the Internet these days. Take these photos from the Oshawa Community Museum and Archives. Where is Oshawa? It's the town in Ontario where a slice of our family lived for a few decades in the 19th century. These photos have been preserved as part of their historical collection, but they are also of individuals who are our, and, I am sure, many other people's ancestors.

As referenced in last post, Grandma Ann's family name was Miller. But it was changed to Miller at the end of the 19th century from Menagh. The Menaghs were originally from County Down in what is now Northern Ireland, near a place called Bangor. From what distant relatives have told me, the surname is an Irish corruption of the Scottish name MacNaughton, and the Menaghs were Protestants. Grandma's father (my great grandfather) was born Alphonse Menagh in Oshawa, Ontario, in 1886. He died with the name Fred Miller in 1936. The following photo is of John Menagh, who I believe to be his grandfather. John Menagh was born in Ireland in 1832 and died in Oshawa in 1912:



And this photo is of John Menagh's son Franklyn Boyns Menagh (my great great grandfather), who was born in 1859. The photo must have been taken in the 1860s. Forgive the poor kid for being so pasty, he's Irish:



This final photo is of John Menagh's wife and Frank Menagh's mother, Rachel Boyns Robinson Menagh and an unidentified daughter. The little girl might be Ethel, Frank's sister, who was the witness at his wedding to Annabelle Jaynes (hence the family name, Annabelle).




Here's a record of Frank Menagh and Annabelle Jaynes's marriage, just to sum up:

8303-81 Frank B. MENAGH, 22, moulder, Oshawa, Detroit, s/o John MENAGH & Rachel ROBINSON, married Annabel JAYNES, 20, Grafton, Oshawa, d/o William H. JAYNES & Mary MALE, witn: Thomas GALE of Whitby & E. MENAGH of Oshawa, 12 Dec 1881 at Oshawa.

To think of how disconnected from these people we are at this stage. All it takes is 150 years, and you become completely estranged from the past. For some reason, it's really hard for me to feel Irish or connected to Ireland. My whole body type is different, and I have to admit, I have stereotypes about Irish people (they are too eager to fight about small things, given to blood feuds, and pasty. Most of all, they take offense!). That being said, they make great bouncers. If you ever need someone's ass kicked, employ an Irishman. But I am lying a bit here, too, because I have red in my beard, and it's got to come from somewhere. There is an Irishman in here somewhere, buried amongst the piles of Italians.

grandma a

I forgot to post a celebratory birthday announcement for Grandma Abbatecola, who turned 85 on Dec. 28. They're all stacked back to back: Grandma Peg (91, Dec. 26), Grandma Ann (85, Dec. 28), and Marta (6, Dec. 30). A straight run of birthdays.

I was thinking of Grandma A yesterday when we drove home because I was describing her to Epp. Grandma A (birth name: Annabelle Margaret Miller), gets up early, real early. I stayed there a few times and would hear the radio alarm go off at something like 6 am. Then she would vanish to the kitchen. I might follow a little while after:

"Do you want pancakes now or later?" she would ask, standing near the kitchen sink.

"Now!" I would plop happily into a chair.

"You're like your mother, she likes to eat when she gets up," Grandma would say. "But Steven, he's like Mary. He likes to wait a while and then eat."

Grandma's house was dark and adorned with religious imagery. I found the abstract drawings of Christ in "Father Joe's room" -- where my great uncle, the Catholic priest, used to stay when in New York -- pretty intimidating when I was trying to go to sleep. "Father" Joe (who I didn't figure out was grandma's brother until I was seven or so years old) had very interesting books on his shelves. I remember one was called "Blitzkrieg" -- it was about the German invasion of Poland in 1939. He also had the old leather-bound box, the one belonging to someone named William C. Carroll, a person to whom I have never been able to figure out our relationship. Someone had been in the Civil War. There was a secret compartment to the box: a bloody 500 dollar Confederate bill. There were lots of mysteries in that room.

There were mysteries in the basement, too. Books about strange groups of men: Jesuits, Franciscans, photo albums of Italian art. Grandma could talk about these groups with some authority. The Franciscans were her favorite. Her favorite saint? St. Francis of Assisi. There is even a framed 17th century Catholic text down there somewhere. Aye, there's something old and musty down in grandma's basement. I remember from time to time I used to find toys that belonged to my uncles Joe and Bob (about 20 years older than me). Those toys seemed like artifacts from a different age. I imagined that Joe and Bob, two giants who then lived upstairs, were millions of years old.

Yes, grandma's was a very mystical place. Grandma, though? She grew up in a family of boys in the '20s and '30s in the city. She wanted to wear slacks, not skirts. I've asked her about growing up in a house full of guys (I imagine it sort of like "Our Gang" meets "Boys Town") but I am short on stories. I called her a few months back: she was watching the Yankees game. She has a New York Irish accent and talks a bit out of the side of her mouth. We used to call her brother John "Popeye" at least partially for this.

When I was at Grandma's house, I would think of my grandfather, Frank, who was dead, and who I assumed had died in the house. I knew very instinctively that he had been there, even when I was a small child. I guess he had only died about 15 years before; he had left some residual energy. Great-grandma was there too at some point. She was gray, like a ghost. She seemed to be a billion years old. Now when I see the photos of her from this time, I am surprised I see it that way. She looks puny and inoffensive.

There are lots of other memories and associations with grandma. Really rich, fattening foods. Mince meat pie. Hard sauce spiced with whiskey. Empty seltzer water bottles in the garage. The tree in the front yard that they gave her for her first mother's day in that house back in nineteen fifty-something. But the most fantastic thing about grandma is that she is still here and my daughters know who she is. Marta calls her "Mimi's Mimi." But in our family, she's basically everybody's Mimi.